One life over and another begun—one over and another begun: the words chimed in his ears as he rode away. And great was the consternation of the servants at Thorne when he rode away—great the amazement of Mary and Beatrice, who had gone back to their private room, and were waiting there to be called down and hear “the news.” “Gussy has refused him!” they said to each other with indescribable dismay. Their countenances and their hearts fell. What! the excitement all over, nothing to inquire into, no wooing to watch, nor wedding to expect? The girls thought they had been swindled, and went down together, arm in arm, to inquire into it. But the succession of events at this moment was too rapid to permit us to pause and describe the scene which they saw when they went down stairs.

In the meantime Edgar rode back to Arden, saying these words over to himself—one life ended and another begun. The one so sweet and warm and kindly and familiar, the other so cold and so unknown. He did not even know what his name was—who he was. The letters in the packet were few in number. They were signed only with initials. The post-marks on one outside cover which was preserved had been partially obliterated; but the name, so far as he could make it out, was that of some insignificant post-town which he had never heard of. At present, however, that question had not moved him much. He knew himself only as Edgar Arden. He could not realise himself in any other character, although at this very moment he had been proclaiming himself to be Edgar Arden no more. How hard it would be to change; to tear up his roots, as it were, to be no more Clare’s brother, to enter a world absolutely unknown. Ah, yes! but that was a distant dread—a thing that looked less by being far. In the meantime it was not the passive suffering, but the active, that was to be his. As he rode along, he asked himself anxiously what must be his next step. The Rector must be told, and Dr. Somers. He thought with a little gleam of satisfaction of going to the Doctor, and dispersing all his evil thoughts in the twinkling of an eye. That sweet little gentle face in the picture, the woman who was Clare’s mother, not his—it was his part to remove the cloud that had so long been over it. He saw now that everybody had more or less believed in this cloud—that there had been a feeling abroad even among those who defended her most warmly that poor Mrs. Arden required defence. And now it was he, not her son, a changeling, who was to do her justice. “I can clear my mother,” he said to himself—and another swift shooting pang went through his heart the moment he was conscious of the words he had used—but he could not disentangle this dreary knot. The confusion would clear away with time. He could not stop using the words he had always used, or turn his thoughts in a moment from the channel they had flowed in all his life.

What Edgar did first was to ride to the station, but not this time with any thought of making his escape. He telegraphed to Mr. Fazakerly, bidding him come at once on urgent business. “I shall expect you to dinner to-night,” was the conclusion of his message. What had to be done, it was best to do quickly, now as always. To be sure he had secured it now. He had done that which made it unimportant whether the papers were burned or not: and it was best that all should be concluded without delay. The only thing that Edgar hesitated at was telling Arthur Arden. He was the person most concerned: all that could be affected in any one else was a greater or less amount of feeling—a thing always evanescent and never to be calculated upon; but the news was as important to Arthur as to Edgar. A man (poor Edgar thought) of high and delicate character would have gone to Arthur first, and told him first; but he himself was not equal to that. He did not want to tell it to Arthur Arden. He would rather have some one else tell it to him—Fazakerly—any one. He loathed the idea of doing it himself. He even loathed the idea of meeting his successor, his heir, as he had so often called him; and he could not have told why. It was not that he expected any unkindness or want of consideration from Arthur. No doubt he would behave just as he ought to do. He would be kind; probably he would offer to pension the unwilling impostor. He would be happy, exultant in his wonderful success; and that would make him kind. But yet, the only person to whom Edgar hesitated to communicate his downfall was the one who was most interested in it. The very thought of him brought renewed and growing pain. For there was Clare to be thought of—Clare whom Arthur professed to love—whom, if he loved her, he would now be, so far as outward circumstances were concerned, a fitting match for. Edgar had made up his mind that he must give up his sister. He had decided that, whatever might be said or done now in this moment of excitement and agitation, Clare was lost to him, and that the bond between them could not be kept up. But if she were Arthur Arden’s wife the breaking of the bond would be more harsh, more complete, than in any other case. His breast swelled, and then it contracted painfully, bringing bitter tears to his eyes. Never, should he live a hundred years without seeing her, could Clare cease to be his sister. Nothing could make her less or more to him. If it was not blood, it was something deeper than blood. But Arthur Arden’s wife!

Poor Edgar! he could not answer for his thoughts, which were wild and incoherent, and rushed from one point to another with feverish speed and intensity; but his actions were not incoherent. He rode from the railway to the village very steadily and calmly, and stopped at Sally Timms’ cottage-door to ask for Jeanie, who was better and had regained consciousness. Then he went up the street, and dismounted at the Rectory gate. He had not intended to do it, or rather he had not known what he intended. The merest trifle, a nothing decided him. The door was open, and the Rector’s sturdy cob was standing before it waiting for his master. Edgar made a rapid reflection that he could now tell his story quickly, that there would be no time for much talk. He went in without knocking by the open door. Mr. Fielding was not in the library, nor in his drawing-room, nor in his garden. “I expect him in every moment, sir,” Mrs. Solmes said, with a curtsey. “He’s visiting the sick folks in the village. The horse is for young Mr. Denbigh, please, sir. Master has mostly given up riding now.”

Edgar made a nod of assent. He was not capable of speech. If this had been his first attempt to communicate the news, it would have seemed providential to his excited fancy. But Lady Augusta had not been out, and he had been able to tell his tale very fully there. Now, however, there seemed a necessity laid upon him to tell it again. If not Mr. Fielding, some one at least must know. He went across to the Doctor’s, thinking that at least he would see Miss Somers, who would not understand nor believe him. He had sent his horse away, telling the groom he would walk home. He was weary, and half crazed with exhaustion, sleeplessness, and intense emotion. He could not keep it in any longer. It seemed to him that he would like to have the church bells rung, to collect all the people about, to get into—no, not the pulpit, but the Squire’s pew—the place that was like a stage-box, and tell everybody. That would be the right thing to do. “Simon!” he called out to the old clerk, who had been working somewhere about the churchyard, and who at the sound of the horse’s hoofs had come to see what was going on, and stood with his arms leaning on the wall looking over. “Is there aught ye want as I can do for ye, Squire?” said old Simon. “No; nothing, nothing,” said poor Edgar; and yet he would have been so glad had some one rung the church bells. He paused, and this gentle domestic landscape burned itself in upon his mind as he crossed to the Doctor’s door. The village street lay asleep in the sun. Old Simon, leaning on the churchyard wall, was watching in a lazy, rural way the cob at Mr. Fielding’s door waiting for the curate, Edgar’s groom going off with his master’s horse towards the big gates, and a waggon which was standing in front of the Arden Arms. The waggoner had a tankard of ale raised to his face, and was draining it, concealing himself behind its pewter disk. The quietest scene: the sun caught the sign-post of the Arden Arms, which had been newly painted in honour of Edgar, and played upon the red cap of the drayman who stood by, and swept down the long white road, clearing it of every shadow. All this Edgar saw and noted without knowing it. In many a distant scene, at many a distant day, this came back to him—the gleam of that red cap, the watchful spectatorship of the old man over the churchyard wall.

Dr. Somers met him coming out. “Ah!” said the Doctor, “coming to see me. I am in no particular hurry. Come in, Edgar. It is not so often one sees you now——”

“You will see me less in the future,” said Edgar with a smile; “but I don’t think there will be many broken hearts.”

“Are you going away?” said Dr. Somers, leading the way into his own room. “Visits, I suppose; but take my word for it, my boy, there is no house so pleasant as your own house in autumn, when the covers are as well populated as yours. No, no; stay at home—take your visits later in the year.”

“Dr. Somers,” said Edgar, “I have come to tell you something. Yes, I am very serious, and it is very serious—there is nothing, alas, to laugh about. Do you remember what you hinted to me once here about—Mrs. Arden. Do you recollect the story you told me of the Agostini——”

“Ah, yes!” said the Doctor, growing slightly red. “About your mother—yes, perhaps I did hint; one does not like to speak to a man plainly about anything that has been said of his mother. I am very sorry; but I don’t think I meant any harm—to you—only to warn you what people said——”

“And I have come to tell you that people are mistaken,” said Edgar, with rising colour. He felt, poor fellow, as if he were vindicating his mother by proving that he was not her son. She was his mother in his thoughts still and always. Dr. Somers shook his head ever so slightly; of course, that was the right thing for her son to say.

“You think I have come, without evidence, to make a mere assertion,” Edgar continued. “Listen a moment——”

“My dear fellow,” said Dr. Somers, shrugging his shoulders, “how could you, or any one, make more than a mere assertion on such a subject. Assert what you please. You may be right—most likely you are right; but it is a matter which cannot be brought to proof.”

“Yes,” said Edgar. This time it was worse than even with Lady Augusta. With her he had the support of strong feeling, and counted on sympathy. But the Doctor was different. A film came over the young man’s eyes; the pulsations of his heart seemed to stop. The Doctor, looking at him, jumped up, and rushing to a cupboard brought out some wine.

“Drink it before you say another word. Why Edgar, what is this?”

He put the wine away from him with some impatience. “Listen,” he said; “this is what it is—I am not Mrs. Arden’s son!”

Dr. Somers looked at him intently—into his eyes, in a way Edgar did not understand. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I see—take the wine; take it to please me—Edgar Arden, I order you, take the wine.”

“To please you, Doctor,” said Edgar, “by all means.” And when he had drank it, he turned to his old friend with a smile. “But I am not Edgar Arden. I am an impostor. Doctor, do you think I am mad?”

Dr. Somers looked at him once more with the same intent gaze. “I don’t know what to make of you,” he said, in a subdued tone. “No more jesting, Edgar, if this is jesting. What is it you mean?”

“I am speaking the soberest, saddest truth,” said Edgar. “Clare will tell you; I have no right to call her Clare. I do not know who I am; but Mrs. Arden is clear of all blame, once and for ever. I am not her son.”